


The Psychological and Ethical Implications of Amateur Resurrection

by labyrinthineRetribution



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Frankenstein (Mary Shelley), Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Nonbinary Character, POV Roxy Lalonde, Resurrection, i mean its frankenstein adjacent, its. youll get it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 01:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20806142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labyrinthineRetribution/pseuds/labyrinthineRetribution
Summary: Exploiting the premise of Frankenstein to its fullest extent.





	The Psychological and Ethical Implications of Amateur Resurrection

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering  tipsyGnostalgic [TG]  
  
TT: Hey Roxy, you there?  
TT: I guess it doesn't really matter. This isn't really something I'd describe as 'time sensitive.'  
TT: I just think you deserve a proper farewell.  
TT: You won't be hearing from me in a while, hell knows when or if I'll be back.  
TT: I've embarked on something of a personal project here, some real groundbreaking shit.  
TT: Not to jerk my own dick here but if this actually works then it could completely change humanity's comprehension of how we function as beings.  
TT: Or I could be completely talking out of my ass here. That's for you to decide.  
TT: Either way I'll be ollieing the fuck out in the meantime.  
TT: Lots and lots of moving parts, you're already quite familiar with the drill.  
TT: Take care.  
  
timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering  tipsyGnostalgic [TG]

Your name is Roxy Lalonde and you may be the last person to here from Dirk Strider alive.

* * *

You feel your smooth phone screen under your fingertips as the chilled night air rustles you hair and numbs your skin. You should have gone inside hours ago, but something keeps you rooted to your seat. You feel a nudge against your leg as your cat gently headbutts you.

God he's so stupid. You'd kill for him.

You take a deep swig of the coffee your girlfriend had brought you hours ago. It's ice fucking cold but you aren't about to go back inside and nuke it just yet. Calliope's probably asleep already anyway, but the girl sleeps like the dead, so it's a moot point. Your neighborhood is dead silent with every curtain drawn and light extinguished. You take comfort in nights like this, where it feels like you could be the only person left alive.

The tinny sounds of _ Lavender Town _ ring out into the night from your phone's shitty speakers. Someone is calling you. This wouldn't be such a notable occurrence if it weren't 3 in the morning. You let out a deep sigh and check the number. 

Unknown. That's strange. Probably just one of those common 3 AM telemarketers coming to shill some insurance or dick growing pills. Yeah, that sounds plausible. 

It gets so quiet in these last few hours until dawn. Even the cicadas and crickets have crawled off the whatever hole they dwelled in. The only thing disrupting the illusion that time had come to a standstill are the flashing lights and distant wail of an ambulance. While not uncommon, there's something about it that doesn't sit well with you. It might be time to turn in for the night.

You go to scoop Mutini up but the little bastard has dashed off into the night once again. You're not worried though, most people in your neighborhood are very familiar with him, and it's more likely he crawled under the house again.

"Goodnight and good luck Mutes! Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

You wonder what he gets up to when you aren't around. Maybe there's some Game of Thrones cat society going on and Mutie was a participant in the weekly feast. That shit would be fucking adorable.

You slink back inside and creep up the stairs. Your phone starts buzzing again, the same unknown number. You give it a quick thought then shut off your phone, faceplanting into your bed afterwards.

* * *

This course of action would ultimately prove to be your undoing as you overslept and must now forgo any idea of breakfast or peace of mind as you struggle to find a clean pair of pants. Your name is Roxy Lalonde and you may be the most shortsighted motherfucker since Epimetheus. You're contemplating just wearing those goddamn sweatpants for the 5th time in a row when Calliope pops her head in the room and tosses something at you, giving you a small smile.

"I had a feeling you wouldn't get around to laundry this week."

You rush over to your girlfriend and promptly smother her in kisses.

"Callie?"

"Hm?"

"Caaaaaaaaallie?"

"Yes Roxy?"

"Do I ever tell you how much I fuckin' I love you?"

Calliope can barely stifle her giggle.

"Nearly every day for the past five years I believe."

"Well then, looks like we're both winners here don't it?"

"Don't you have somewhere to be?"

Son of a bitch.

"Yeah yeah yeahyeahyeah, I got it all under control," you assure her, frantically shoving one foot in your pants while digging your keys from your jacket pocket.

"And don't forget, we promised to visit Jake tomorrow."

"Well Jesus H Dick man, that's all fine and dandy but I'm totes gonna forget that so you gotta remind me, ok byyyyyyye!" you blurt on your way out the door, nearly tripping over Mutie. What a little shit. He deserves the world.

You've lost any hope of catching the bus, so the next best option would have to be the subway. As you sprint down the steps you nearly slam straight into some vagrant teen, swaying ever so slightly . He looks ratty and tired, with an intense look in his yellowed eyes, the effect of which is almost startling. This guy has stared something down most would hope they never got a glimpse of in their lifetimes. You almost offer an apology, but something about this guy just puts you off. Maybe it was the shock of loose, curly grey hair or the overwhelming stench of ammonia. You soldier on and put him out of your mind, wasting way too much time trying to decipher the ancient ruins the city calls a schedule and almost missing your train. You hate riding this thing, the feeling of despair was nearly tangible and the seat seemed unnaturally sticky. You just shove your hands in your pockets, throw your hood up and keep your eyes focused on your fellow commuters. They all seem typical enough, a good mix of college students, vaguely important business people and small families rushing out on errands. A baby points at you and laughs and for a second you can almost forget the guy next to dead set on hunting for gold with every spare finger he has. Almost.

You steal a quick look at your phone. 13 fucking missed calls. You don't know what the hell this all is, but you block the number before you can dwell on it longer. Maybe tonight you could prank call them or something.

You launch from your seat as soon as you arrive at your stop, taking the stairs back to the surface two at a time. Maybe it's the blood pounding in your ears or the lack of sleep but you feel like you can almost make out your name in the sea of shouts and babbling. The stress of getting physically and mentally tormented on a near daily basis for picking a goddamn 8 AM class seems to have manifested in your very own personal guilt demons, huh. Really no time to ponder that particular mystery of the universe now though, is there? 

You have a good seven minutes before class starts and your bitch of a teacher not only will dock points for tardiness, but will straight up lock the door in your sorry face. You have spent many a lecture with your face pressed up against the glass like some sort of Sarah Mclachlan rescue puppy three days before its scheduled euthanization, straining to see the board and/or possibly lie to yourself about you ability to read lips. You'd love nothing more than to skip this class, but as it's mandatory for your major and you would prefer not to spend another year with a vindictive snake who barely passes as a human being with a teaching degree, you make the extra effort to run a little faster and vow to deal with the consequences later.

You're about a couple dozen yards and two minutes from the front door when you hear footsteps rapidly approaching behind you, accompanied by the feeling of a rough hand grabbing your wrist. You barely have time to register all this before your spare fist connects with some poor bastards jawbone, complemented with a little popping sound.

"Hey _ asshole _, hands off the fucking-" you start, whirling around, but your words get caught in your throat.

Your most likely well deserved burn would have to wait until another day to come to fruition, as would any desire to make it to your class today. You feel like you're going to vomit, and you might have if you had had anything in your stomach.

Your name is Roxy Lalonde and your morning has led you to stand over the unconscious body known to most as Dirk Strider, dead to the world as of 18 months ago.

More importantly, you have quite the impressive right hook.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you all liked the first chapter! ive wanted to put it to pape for a long while now so it feels nice


End file.
